


Bloodsucker

by TearoomSaloon



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Blood, Canon Universe, Comedy, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Vampires, can you fuckin believe I kept this in the canon verse, do these tags even go together? god, take absolutely none of this seriously, there's blood here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 06:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11731308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/TearoomSaloon
Summary: There's something...off about him. He seems hungry when he looks at her. Actually hungry. Like he might take a bite out of her arm.He's insisting he's human, but she'll go to lengths to call his bluff. What does she care if that riles him? She's stuck here anyhow.





	Bloodsucker

**Author's Note:**

> I take full responsibility for this. It started as a really bad joke. I'm sorry.

 He looks human, but for once, in this incarnation, he is not. No metaphors, no similes, he simply is not. She’s felt uncomfortable, uneasy around him since they’d first met in the forest. That first interaction wasn’t supposed to be pleasurable, but a sinking feeling of dread is what has lain in place of fear. She could profess to be afraid of his strange behavioral tics, the distinct leer in his eyes, but her anxiety stems from another, more visceral reason.

Gods, those teeth…

Once she meets his mother, it clicks. His father hadn’t been the same as his wife or son. He’d been friendly, easygoing, _human_. His boy was anything but, acted as though he understood what it was to be man. However, he is unquestionably inhuman like his mother. She is stern as she needs, carries the same odd behaviors, gestures. Her teeth are just as long, if not longer. But, quite unlike her boy, she is controlled.

Ren is a monster.

Not…well, she supposes, not necessarily a malicious one, but a monster nonetheless. An alien, maybe, if she can find a species that matches his description. When she was a child, she’d read about his kind in old journals found buried deep below the sands. She has seen artwork in the Old Caves, down under the surface of Jakku. Mothers whisper about his kind to their children, to scare them, to stop them from venturing out at night. What he is bears many names, but he doesn’t use a single one.

“They’re all inaccurate,” he scoffs, reading her mind again. He does that frequently, thinks it’s funny to pry into her thoughts. _Just hilarious,_ she grits.

She’s seated as far away from him as possible, her legs pulled up in front of her chest. “What would you call yourself, then?”

“Kylo. My name.”

His name is Ben, but she’s made the mistake of correcting him once before, knows better than to snark when he’s in a foul mood.

With a roll of his eyes, he sits up from his lounged position. “I heard that.”

He’s been holding her captive now for a week. In the first three days, she exhausted all her efforts to wriggle out from his grasp. He’d been waiting for her. Preparing. He cut off her contact with Luke (also not quite human, also a little odd), stifled her connection to the Force, and locked her up to study. Though the third list item didn’t last all that long. He quickly grew bored of taunting her and moved her closer and out of chains.

She cannot tell if she’s some twisted version of his morality pet. He’s cordial, offers her luxuries, makes sure she’s fed (though he doesn’t seem to understand she needs to eat more than once a day). Some nights they make small talk; some nights she actually likes him. He talks about training her, but then decides it’s too tedious. She suspects it has more to do with his…dietary needs. If he were to get too close to her when correcting her form, she could end up a bloody mess on the wall.

His head turns to her when this thought comes across her mind, his yellow-scarlet eyes narrowed. Oh, she knows. She’s seen. If being trained under his uncle wasn’t enough of a clue, she’s seen him lick fresh blood off his cheek. She’s caught him staring at her hungrily, the look in his eyes never lecherous, just… _hungry._

“Don’t give me that face.” His tone is flat, disinterested. “What would you prefer I do?”

“Not gawk at me like I’m a meal?”

“That’s like asking fire not to be hot.”

“Are you admitting to this ‘secret’ you’re keeping?”

“It’s not a secret. And no.”

She wants to scream at his elusiveness with the subject. Eventually, her fear begins to wane, her uneasiness dissipating with no sense of danger on the horizon. Sure, he’s still violent, but he’s reluctant to even acknowledge his greatest power over her.

So, she begins to prod.

“Does your dick look any different?” she asks one evening, datapad in front of her face, feet propped up onto the kitchen table she’s never seen him use.

He coughs, setting down whatever he’s drinking (wine, please be wine, she prays it’s wine). “ _What_?”

"You know, if you’re avoiding the bantha in the room, you can at least help me out a little.”

“I’m not going to dignify you with an answer.”

“So it does.” She lowers the datapad. “Bigger than normal? Smaller? I bet it has barbs.”

He mutters something about a she-demon before returning to his work.

“You could also just let me go and not have to deal with me.”

“Fat chance in chaos.”

“Maybe it has two heads.”

Her throat begins to tingle, limbs unresponsive. Gruffly, with little to no care, he levitates her out of the living area of his quarters and locks her in her makeshift bedroom. He swears once her door closes and she breaks into hysterics. She’s finally getting to him.

* * *

 Her next plan of action is to wear lower tops, nothing that covers her neck. She can tell when he hasn’t eaten in a while because his eyes glaze over and he looks downright monstrous. His teeth are more prominent, too. So, so kriffing sharp, she’d really hate to be on the wrong side of them. One of the days he’s clearly gone too long without a meal, she pushes it just a little too far. She feels like she must have a death wish, putting herself right in next to a relatively starved creature that eats things like her.

It has a trance-like effect on him. It’s _terrifying_.

He’s not a perfect predator, but he makes up for his lack of charm with brute strength. She tilts her head just so, says something to rile his temper. She has a perverse desire to see this in action, this non-secret he’s so desperate to keep. His hands are iron on her hips, his body a wall, a fortress.

"Why are you doing this?” His voice doesn’t match his actions, the way he’s smelling her, the way he’s brushing her loose hair from her shoulder, away from her neck.

“I’m making a point.”

“It’s a damn dangerous one.” His breath is hot on her skin, his restraint impressive.

“I thought you wanted to get rid of me.”

“Gods, no.” Did he just lick her? “Not at all.”

She leans into him. He growls and tears himself from her, trying hard to regain his composure. Her curiosity is getting the better of her and she approaches again, this time wedging him against a wall. “What are you, Kylo?”

Oh, _kriff_ , that hurts. His teeth are damn sharp, like silvery icicles piercing her skin. The sensation of having her blood drawn out from her veins is peculiar but only lasts a few seconds; something in his saliva is numbing the surrounding area.

He pushes her away with a roar, breath coming in short and fast. He looks feral, the color rising in his cheeks. His hand covers his mouth, his lips, and when he withdraws it, she is startled by the size of his canines. The sclera of his left eye is amber, iris a jagged black.

“You’re not human, are you, Kylo?”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He’s so torn between licking her blood off his fingers and controlling himself. “You’re stuck with me now, do you understand that?”

Stuck?

“You need to patch that up or it’ll keep bleeding; there’s an anticoagulant in my venom.”

“Venom? What are you, a reptile?”

He groans and the sound is lewd, choked with hunger. He’s struggling. “Does it matter right now? The bleeding—stop the bleeding.”

In the fresher, she inspects her neck, blood dribbling from the wound. It’s bigger than she thought, full of more teeth marks than just fangs. His voice in her head tells her that it’ll heal nicely, that she won’t have a scar, just hurry up and close the damn hole already.

“I won’t turn into one of you?” she mutters out loud, growing nervous about the paling skin around the puncture site.

“No!” His hearing is too good for her liking.

Once she’s slathered the wound in bacta, she returns to find him sprawled on the sofa, a bag of ice on his forehead. He looks weaker somehow, more famished. She sits opposite him, observing, wondering how he’ll attempt to slither out of an explanation now.

“You taste sweet,” he says softly. “Better than you smell. You’ve ruined any chance at getting away from me fully with that stunt.”

“I think you’ve thwarted all my plans, but go on, what changed?”

“Blood doesn’t taste sweet. But you, I’m going to crave you for ages now.”

“So you still want to eat me.”

One bloodshot eye opens and he glares. “I have bigger plans for you.”

“What are you, Kylo?”

He sits up, not without effort, and lowers the ice to his chest. His eyes are so bloodshot, his gaze woozy. “I’m descended from the Old Ones. I don’t think we have a name in Basic.”

“You’re an old man is what you’re saying.”

He growls and flops back down. “When did you get such a tongue?”

“When you decided not to kill me.”

“I’m not _old_ ,” he huffs. “My father was an old man.”

“Was Han…?”

“No. Just my mother.”

“What else are you willing to tell me now?”

“Sweet blood has more to do with personal preference than actual taste. I’m certain this is something both my mother and grandfather figured out upon meeting their lovers.”

“Hell no.”

He laughs. “Pretty terrible way to learn about a soulmate if you ask me.”

“Absolutely not. No chance in chaos.”

“There’ll be a change in you too, now that I’ve sunk my teeth into you.”

He’s still giggling. She lobs a shoe at him, which only serves to fuel his laughter.

“Calm down, it won’t be so bad.”

“Are you going to want to _eat me_ for the rest of my life?”

“In more than one way I suspect.”

The other shoe nails him in the forehead.

* * *

There’s no way in chaos she’s ever going to love him.

But there’s no way in chaos she won’t, either. It’s a complicated paradox.

He is frustrating and self-righteous and arrogant, but he’s not all that bad. Except for the wanting to bite her part. He’s done that twice more, each time blaming her for it. Each time she’s…kind of liked it.

Not that she’ll ever admit that.

He doesn’t really understand how to be a human being, seeing as though he’s never been one. His father would have been a good influence if his parents hadn’t shipped him off at such a young age. He’s still brooding about that; she watches him pace some nights, his mind abuzz. They’re more connected now than they used to be, the strength of their Force bond tripled. She’s seen a lot of his darker memories and she’s building sympathy for him, brick by brick.

If he’s sated, he’ll let her sit next to him, no fear of becoming frenzied. One night, with a little whisky-fueled courage in her veins, she places herself in his lap, curious about his eyes. They are peculiar, almost gold, almost crimson. They become obsidian when he is starving. Tonight they look like honey, smile on his lips reaching his gaze. They’ve been getting so close as of late, so familiar. She takes his wine and gives him a small peck on the forehead before taking a sip.

He’s not drinking wine.

She’s never seen him laugh so hard.

“Don’t scowl so, I didn’t trick you into it.” He’s got his arm around her waist and it feels natural, comfortable. “Don’t think about it, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me ‘sweetheart,’” she says and grimaces harder.

“Come off it.” He gathers her closer, manages to kiss her cheek without licking her for once. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t expected you to do that.”

“Well, don’t let me do it again.”

* * *

 She’s thought about kissing him on the lips more than once. He already restrains himself when she’s beside him to the point of exhaustion, she can’t imagine how much energy he’d need to control himself enough to kiss her. More than he can handle. If it goes awry, she’ll end up bloody. He’d bite. Which, a small part of her admits, she might be into. She sort of hates him for that; she doesn’t need to be aroused by the idea of bloodplay.

But there’s something enticing about his want for her being all encompassing.

“Absolutely not,” he mutters. He hasn’t eaten in a few days and she’s sitting on the floor to the side of him, their fingers laced. “That could get so ugly so quickly.”

“Your plan was to court me without ever finishing the dance?”

“I didn’t plan anything, and I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Not ever?”

“I don’t know.” He sounds upset about it as well, the idea of being incapable of intimacy eating at him. “Not soon at least.”

He lets her lie beside him the next time he’s eaten. When he kisses her bare shoulders, she can feel the pinpricks of his teeth dragging along her skin. His self-control is getting better, but still there’s an undercurrent of hunger.

She places her hands over his, wrapped in his arms. It’s funny, how close they’ve gotten in a short time. “Do I get to grow old with you,” she asks, reluctant of the answer, “or will I be a blink in your lifespan?”

“I think it’s up to you. I’m not sure how it works.”

“Your father wasn’t like you.”

“He wouldn’t have chosen this for himself, that’s not a good example.”

"Your grandmother?”

“Died young.”

“Just don’t leave me behind, okay? You can’t just do this—” she gestures over their bond to their bond, to the safety she feels, to everything in the past two months, “—and expect me to be okay with leaving it early, or you okay with it all vanishing.”

“I won’t. I promise I won’t.”

“Good. Or else I’ll come after you with garlic.”

**Author's Note:**

> me: mentions bloodplay  
> you, reading that line: 


End file.
